The Astronomer's Son
by Emmylou
Summary: Sherlock solves a case without leaving the flat (or putting on any clothes), John does all the running around, and they both spend a lot of time in bed. A modern adaptation of a canon story.


**Title:** The Astronomer's Son

**Author: **EmmyAngua

**Pairings:** Sherlock/John

**Rating:** R

**Length: **5361 words.

**Summary:** Sherlock solves a case without leaving the flat (or putting on any clothes), John does all the running around, and they both spend a lot of time in bed. A modern adaption of a canon story.

**A/N:** Beta read by SmallHobbit. All mistakes are the result of my own meddling.

* * *

Generally Sherlock wasn't one to stick around for post-coital breath catching. It would be an exaggeration to say that he was un-moved by the experience but he had as iron a control over his libido as he did over everything else. Whether before, after, or during sex; if something more important caught his interest then he was happy to neglect any part of his body (or John's) crying out for attention.

His behaviour today was therefore as puzzling as it was surprising. They'd eschewed a rare day of sunshine in favour of staying in the cool bedroom. Snippets of voices and traffic drifted in through the fluttering blinds but otherwise they were perfectly isolated. Sherlock was on his side, eyes focused on nothing in particular, lost in his own quiet world.

But at any moment a hurricane of boredom might return; four bland days had passed by since the last case. By all rights Sherlock should have been butchering the bed with a kitchen knife; instead he was stretched out on it, cat-like, while his fingers trailed up and down John's chest.

John didn't want to disturb this peaceful moment, but better to face the matter directly than lie here waiting.

He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Mind Palace being more interesting than I am?"

Sherlock's eyes refocused.

"Hmm? Oh. Not particularly."

"Not bored then?" John couldn't help but prod.

Sherlock didn't answer immediately. His eyes glittered, the set of his mouth turned upwards. His fingers trailed downwards and John's nerve-ends flared as they skimmed over his belly button and paused tantalisingly above his half-hard cock.

"This should keep me occupied."

John felt the warmth before the touch, and when the contact came, a firm stroke demanding complete attention, John groaned.

He summoned enough strength to lean forward, peer pointedly at the hand, and then back up at Sherlock.

"Just that?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together, pretending to consider, and then the hand was gone. He ignored John's groan of protest and slid down the bed onto his stomach, head level with John's hips.

"I have other ideas."

John overrode his body's determination to take charge of the situation; he wanted to indulge in a few more minutes of playfulness.

"Nothing else you'd rather be doing?"

The teasing expression dropped into a look of mock seriousness.

"Well what I really wanted was a leisurely walk in the park, but I suppose I'll have to settle for hours and hours of _this_ horrific tedium."

John laughed, but not for long. Sherlock's head dipped down and then there was nothing but heat, the contact of Sherlock's lips meeting his flesh and dragging upwards. He felt the tongue swirl around the tip of his cock before he was taken in again.

"Ha – _ah!_ - oh yeah, I can see how really – _ah!_ - really bored you are."

/

It was mid-afternoon before they emerged into the living-room. John appeared freshly showered and dressed, but Sherlock had refused to leave the bed until absolutely certain John couldn't be persuaded back into it. As a result he'd only deigned to throw his dressing gown around himself.

Sherlock made a beeline for the laptop at the living-room table, leaving John to potter about. He took out two bottles of chilled water, plonking one down next to the laptop, and stood considering all the chores in need of doing. There was an acrid smell coming from the bin, laundry piling up, and a heap of pans in the sink. _Talk about back to reality. _

"That's the thirteenth email about the red tractor case. If_ I_ didn't solve it then why does this dullard from Preston think his brainpower is superior? Greatest mind of a generation fails, but never fear _Prestonman _is here to save us all! No, that's it; you can't publish the ones I don't solve anymore."

And now Sherlock was embarking on a sulk. _Lovely_.

"I can and I will. Mainly because the expression you're making right now is worth it."

Sherlock jumped up from his seat to scrutinise his expression in the mirror, found nothing amusing about his pout, and then slumped back down with a huff. Thankfully for them both, distraction was provided by the entrance of Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh there you are! A lady was here for you, but I thought you'd gone out and told her to come back later."

"I missed a client?!" Sherlock glowered at Mrs. Hudson and John as if they were conspiring to make his life unbearable. "I normally hear them. I can't believe I let you distract me John!"

John raised an eyebrow. "Yes I remember the fuss you were making... all that _moaning_ and _screaming_ about how _distracted_ you were."

It was only after he'd said it, with the water bottle half way to his lips, that his words fully registered with him. There are some things you cannot say in front of your elderly landlady, no matter how open-minded she might be.

Mrs. Hudson looked between them, scandalised. "Oh heaven help us;_ in the middle of the day?!_"

Sherlock, oblivious to this social faux pas, brightened up.

"Wait! John would have been in the shower. The noise from the shower always throws the acoustics off." He looked sternly at Mrs. Hudson. "You really should get that fixed."

Mrs. Hudson ignored this as easily as she ignored all of Sherlock's other outrageous demands.

"She'll have to come back anyway." She held up a piece of jewellery; a brooch. "I found it on the carpet after she'd gone and I could hardly run after her, what with my- _there's no need to snatch, Sherlock!_"

Sherlock returned to his chair to examine the piece while Mrs. Hudson looked on sternly.

"You _will_ put some clothes on before she gets here, won't you Sherlock?"

"No time, Mrs. Hudson! In fact you'll want to head downstairs now. There's a wealthy widow in her seventies approaching our door and she's very worried about her son."

On cue, the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hudson threw her arms up in despair and left to answer it.

John was tempted to feign indifference (and to insist Sherlock put some clothes on) but curiosity won out. How had Sherlock got all that from a brooch?

"Go on, tell me."

He caught the brooch as it was tossed over to him. A huge piece of amber set was in the middle of a gilded oval frame. In itself the brooch would have been merely showy, but a beetle frozen inside the amber gave the thing complete ugliness.

"No dinosaurs Sherlock. I forbid it."

Sherlock waved away what he no doubt mentally labelled as an '_unimportant pop culture reference'_.

"It's Victorian, worth at least a thousand. Brooches are the jewellery choice of the older generation and what women would pay that much for a flawed stone? Gift then. Her husband. She hated it – thirty years of neglect – but it's been recently cleaned and she's wearing it now. Therefore the husband is dead and she's wearing it because she feels guilty for hating something he gave her."

John looked at the brooch again. He supposed he might have worked out the sort of person who owned it, but he'd never have noticed its condition.

"Women come to detectives about lovers or family. Her husband's been dead for at least two years; that means it's about a child. Even with emotional significance, no woman with a daughter would wear a brooch like that. Women with adult daughters keep up with fashion longer, so it's a son. How do I know she's very worried? I'm not the first choice of detective for an elderly woman, but I get results and so here she is."

He turned to the doorway.

"Ah, Mrs. Munro, please do join us. You'll have to excuse my lack of clothing."

The woman in the doorway had the look of Mrs. Hudson with her petite frame and elegant dress; but she had a grimness to her features that brought some of John's stricter primary school teachers to mind. He suddenly wished he'd made Sherlock get dressed.

He stood to greet her. "Can I get you a drink?"

Mrs. Munro (and how did Sherlock know her name?!) shook her head.

"I'd prefer not to linger, as I gather from the article in the Telegraph you have as little patience for shilly-shallying as I do, Mr. Holmes. So I'll get straight down to business and you can decide whether or not to help."

She sat down on the wooden chair, placing her bag to the side and crossing her ankles. John moved to his own seat and Sherlock waved an imperious hand for her to begin.

"As you seem to know my name, I assume you know my son? Grant Munro, Conservative Member of Parliament for Norbury."

Recognition kicked in. Grant Munro's name had been on everyone's lips a few months ago; the scandal had been in every paper and he'd been thoroughly mocked on _Have I Got News For You_.

"Wasn't he one of the MPs in the expenses scandal? Used twenty-five thousand quid of taxpayers' money to redecorate his maid's quarters?" said John.

Mrs. Munro looked at the floor.

"It's a small flat at the bottom of his garden and she's a housekeeper; but yes. And that's part of the reason I'm here. My father worked alongside Churchill; I've always held Grant up to the highest standard. I always believed he was an honest man…"

Sherlock's irritation was clear. "If you're here to have your son's finances investigated-"

"I'm not," she said. "The scandal is part of a whole series of strange behaviour. I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, but last night he lied to me outright. I won't play the fool a moment longer."

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and fixed her eyes on the coffee table as she began to speak.

"It started with his divorce two years ago. Very modern excuses," she sighed, "differences and so on. She was as good as a daughter to me; family is so important. The day after they told me… I collapsed. A stroke, they said. I told them the divorce wasn't the cause, but Grant blamed himself and insisted I should stay with him for a while. I didn't intend to stay for long, but I was hit by several illnesses... and then the expenses scandal broke."

"I have no _idea_ what he was thinking. The flat is at the edge of the property; you can see the back of it from the house. They'd never used it during their marriage but a month after I moved into his house Grant insisted we hire a housekeeper to help me. He arranged the whole thing. The flat was redecorated for her; I had no idea about the designer furniture. I've never even been inside."

"Do you think he was having an affair with this housekeeper?" asked John.

Mrs. Munro shook her head. "She's a middle aged and rather grumpy Polish woman. I get along with her quite well but she's no one's idea of a mistress."

"They could be hiding their relationship," said John. Men took mistresses of all types, after all.

"Why though? He's not married anymore and he's always been outspoken about the force for good Polish immigration is for this country. He could have moved her into the house whenever he wanted without the slightest scandal."

Sherlock opened his mouth, signalling his patience for tales of family was running out. "Mrs Munro as fascinating as this all is, I am not a family counselling service. Is there actually a mystery to solve, beyond some needlessly expensive wallpaper in an annex flat?"

Mrs. Munro nodded.

"Of course. I'll get to the point. Two weeks ago part of the ceiling in my bedroom collapsed and I had to move to a room at the back of the house. From that window I can see the flat. My passion is for astronomy, so when I can't sleep I stargaze. But ever since I've been in the new bedroom, I've been distracted from the stars. I see strange things in the window of the flat.

Sherlock leaned forward. "What things?"

Her answer took a moment, but when it came it surprised John totally.

"Gargoyles. Every night I see the face of a gargoyle in the window. A different one each time. I know it sounds silly, but you have no idea how unsettling it is. It's as if they're somehow watching me."

"Are you sure it's not artwork of some-kind?" asked John.

"The housekeeper denies any knowledge of them. And if it was artwork, why would they keep changing?"

"Things came to a head yesterday. I heard shouting in the middle of the night. It was only faint, but I could hear it all the way from the flat. I rushed down to find out what was happening, only to find my son storming towards the house. He tried to steer me back inside, but there was an almighty crash and the gargoyle head was _thrown through the glass_. At that point my own son physically manhandled me back indoors."

On this last point her voice wavered. It's hard to suspect your family, John knew, even when you have every reason to believe they are lying to you.

"Thank you for coming to me Mrs. Munro," Sherlock said briskly. "If you leave your address and number I'll have a solution in the next few days."

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely. Here's your brooch, first anniversary present wasn't it? Anyway I'm sure you can see yourself out."

Mrs. Munro accepted the brooch with a surprised look.

"Mr. Holmes," she said slowly, "I've never liked trickery or games. You knew my name when I came in and you knew my brooch was an anniversary gift. I'd like to know how."

Sherlock sighed as if showing off was somehow torture for him.

"You're clearly wealthy and there are subtle touches of Tory blue on your silk scarf. Those heels hurt your feet; you're in your seventies and there's no need for you to wear them, but you're used to maintaining an image and you have a certain amount of standing in the community. You're carrying a hessian bag with Norbury Local Business Trust printed on it. It's well-worn so you clearly take an interest in your community. The MP for Norbury is Grant Munro who shares your striking jaw and deep distrust of the non-traditional."

"You hate politics!" said John, too shocked to stop himself.

Sherlock, still a picture of debauchery in the chair, waved his hand.

"I saw you scowling at something offensive he said on television about gay marriage. Being newly gay it upset you."

John spluttered. "I am not '_newly_ -'"

Sherlock ignored him. "The anniversary was an educated guess. Personally I think it's hideous."

Mrs. Munro bowed her head. "You're right. My husband never did understand the difference between expensive and tasteful. But now I can't help but appreciate even the most unwise of his gifts."

"I'm not a trickster Mrs. Munro," said Sherlock (he really believed that, John noted). "I'll have your answer in a day or so."

Mrs. Munro thanked them and left.

/

John was expecting them to be on the next train to Norbury, but Sherlock seemed to have other plans. As soon as Mrs. Munro was gone he decided on taking one of the searing hot baths he preferred, leaving John to tackle the laundry pile. He was in the corridor, but the bathroom door was open and they were keeping up a conversation.

"Figured it out yet?" called John, as he dumped the laundry onto the floor to sort it.

A splash. "Of course. Interesting for about a minute but ultimately tedious."

John had only been joking about Sherlock solving the case. He moved to the bathroom door where he leaned against the doorframe with crossed arms. Sherlock's head was tilted back, hair slick and skin pink from the heat. The air was spicy with his ruinously expensive shower-gel.

"You've seriously solved it?"

"Of course."

"Then why let her go home without an answer?"

A shrug. "I dislike emotional scenes and youdislike me upsetting old women."

John suddenly had a premonition as to who Sherlock envisioned as the bearer of bad news. It looked like he was getting the train today after all.

"Go on then. What's this man you've never met hiding in this place you've never been?"

Sherlock's eyes opened as if surprised John hadn't worked it out for himself. "Isn't it obvious? He's hiding a child."

John's blood chilled. "Sherlock, are you serious? Because we need to call-"

"Not a stranger's child. _His_ child. He and this woman had an affair, causing the breakup of his marriage. When he found out there was a baby he wanted the child nearby and arranged this housekeeper job for her. If he was found out his career would be destroyed, and it very nearly was when her expensive tastes led to the expenses scandal."

John scoffed. "You can't just keep a child undetected-"

"Up until recently Mrs. Munro had a bedroom on the other side of the house, and even now she can't see the door to the flat. The mistress is clever; she knows what this means to him and is blackmailing him, hence the need for the expense claims to fund her revolting gargoyle art. If he was found out he'd still have to pay her child support; it's a win-win situation for her. She's even on friendly terms with Mrs. Munro knowing that if the scandal was revealed, she would be willing to help her grandchild financially."

John blinked as Sherlock expertly lined up the facts.

"So what do I need to do then? I take it you aren't coming along? The prospect of you going all Jeremy Kyle is frankly terrifying."

Sherlock chuckled.

"It'll be easy. Just the presence of John Watson, investigative blogger, will put Munro on edge. Just tell him you know all about _Aurek_ and it would be better to tell his mother before the press descends.

"'_Aurek_?' You know the name of this kid? Oh Jesus, you didn't hack into the birth records database again did you?"

"Not this time. And it's not hacking_._ Mycroft 'lost' the passwords a while back. It's _logging in_."

/

It was a long night followed by a two hour wait on a deserted platform at 3am, and then a signal failure at Stratford. When John staggered into the bedroom at 8am he wasn't feeling charitable enough to tiptoe around so as not to disturb Sherlock's peaceful slumber.

He dumped his bag down and groaned.

"You caught the early train then?"

Sherlock sounded perfectly alert, though he hadn't even opened his eyes yet.

"For all the good it did me. I see you never bothered to put any clothes on."

Sherlock didn't reply; the answer was self-evident, wrapped as he was in a light sheet and nothing more.

John sat down heavily on the end of the bed, back to Sherlock, and toed off his shoes. "What. A. Night."

"How are the not-so-happy couple?"

He said it as John was attempting to pull his shirt over his head without undoing the buttons first. There was a brief struggle with the collar and then John was free. He turned to glare at Sherlock, who was smirking with his arms propped behind his head.

Of _course_ he'd known. How very bloody typical of Sherlock to send him off on a wild goose chase. And there he was, smugly confident that John would beg him for the tale of how he'd worked it all out without ever leaving the flat.

It would be so much easier, John thought bitterly, if he wasn't so damn curious.

"If you already knew why did you make up all that guff about a child?"

"Because you were enjoying the idea of me getting things wrong a bit too much. I wanted to snatch your victory away…"

Sherlock crawled to the end of the bed. The sheet was still tangled up around his waist, but a little lower than before. John reached out the stroke the exposed hip and caught Sherlock's mouth in a kiss.

The only thing sexier than Sherlock in nothing but a sheet was him in that exact same condition but shivering with desire both for John's body and for John's appreciation of his brilliant mind.

The contact had its usual effect on John, which was to bring sex higher up the agenda than he'd previously imagined possible. He wanted the truth, he wanted Sherlock, and he wanted sleep in precisely that order.

He pulled back from the kiss.

"And?"

"And I wasn't lying when I said I have no interest in an easily solved case and a hysterical old lady."

Spell broken, John gave Sherlock a shove backwards onto the bed.

"You are a _complete_ tosser."

There was no heat to it though, and Sherlock smirked across at him while he stood to finish stripping.

"Munro will never let you write it up, so you can't share another story of how wrong I was, even if I had been wrong. I take it Mrs. Munro is hysterical? Really this whole thing would have been solved if she'd Googled '_Polish Gargoyle Artist'_, which is what I did five seconds after she left."

John shook his head in disbelief. Part of him was annoyed at Sherlock being a smug know-it-all and showing off again, but as that was also one of his favourite things about Sherlock he could hardly stay mad. He lay down on Sherlock's left and – after allowing himself to enjoy the comfort for a few moments – he shared his side of the story.

"Things didn't exactly go to plan. Grant Munro was nowhere to be found and so I had no choice but to tell Mrs. Munro your theory. She wanted to go straight down to the flat, which by the way was in the most enormous garden, she must have eyes like a hawk to see into the windows of that flat from the house…

"The facts John."

"Mm, right. When we burst into the flat there was no sign of the housekeeper or any child…"

"I can't_ believe_ you considered that theory credible. Really John, even some basic-"

John scowled and poked Sherlock in the ribs with his thumb.

"Yes, well we did find a very, very naked Grant Munro in bed with a very, very cross artist by the name of Aurek Hebda. Which wasn't the ideal way for a seventy-odd-year-old woman to find out her son was having an affair with a man. Also, not that you care, I looked like a complete twat because I'd just fed her the whole grandchild story."

He gave a glare which went entirely unnoticed by Sherlock, who was staring up at the ceiling, listening intently.

He wasn't sure what had been worse in those unpleasant ten minutes; the remorseful sobbing of a still-naked Grant Munro, the apoplectic rage Hebda was directing at him for bursting in, or the stony expression of Mrs. Munro as her eyes flickered between Hebda and her son.

"He met Aurek Hebda at an exhibition and they began their affair, which lead to the discreet divorce of Munro and his understanding wife. Munro swears he'd been planning to come out, renounce his homophobic statements, and damn the consequences…"

"I suppose his mother having a stroke changed his mind?"

"Somehow they became convinced of their star-crossed love story. Munro persuaded Hebda to stay in the flat for a few weeks until Mrs. Munro was well enough to go home and Hebda liked the idea of some quiet time to work. But a few weeks turned into months; that's when Munro used the money to decorate the flat. Hebda persuaded his out-of-work sister to come and take a housekeeping job as an excuse for the flat to be in use; the plan was that she'd go home every evening and they'd spend the nights together."

"Until Mrs. Munro moved bedrooms and sneaking across the garden at night suddenly wasn't as easy," Sherlock finished.

"I can imagine spending two years in hiding is enough to drive anyone 'round the bend. And trust me when I say that Aurek Hebda is very good at being furious. I'm surprised the gargoyle was the only thing he threw out of the window in that fight."

Sherlock looked delighted.

"So I _was_ right."

John harrumphed half-heartedly, not wanting to add fuel to Sherlock's smugness.

Sherlock leaned in close to murmur into John's ear. "Next time you doubt me I'll just have to whisper...'_Norbury_'."

Decisive action was needed. It was never good for Sherlock to get his own way completely. In one fluid movement John rolled them so he was no longer at Sherlock's side, but pinning him to the bed. The sheet, which had been a minor annoyance before now gave John an advantage – his weight caused it to pin Sherlock's hips to the bed.

"So this was one enormous ploy so you could have a comeback every time I pointed out that you're a cocky git?" John demanded.

His hand slipped down to tease Sherlock through the fabric. His own cock was half-hard already but he was relaxed enough to take his time.

"Mmm…." Sherlock hummed. "And as a general reminder of my brilliance."

Sherlock was so very certain he'd won this battle of wits that he was already rejoicing in his victory. Which he might have deserved, thought John, if he'd been right about _everything_.

A plan formed in his mind. Unfortunately something of this must have showed in his face because just as he leaned down for a kiss Sherlock stopped him. His hand, still idly teasing Sherlock through the fabric, was stilled.

"You're plotting something. How very ambitious."

Sherlock clearly had ideas of his own. The hand around his cock derailed any plans forming in John's mind. The steady hand pumped up and down and the comfortable arousal was replaced with _want, want, want_.

The hand stopped. John moaned and rocked his hips down against Sherlock. The friction he was rewarded with was nowhere near enough.

Annoyingly Sherlock looked serene, as though his own straining cock didn't bother him in the slightest

"Tell me what you're plotting."

John closed his eyes to try and calm his body enough for his brain to take back some of the control. He was close to the edge and his whole body was screaming to give up the games and get on with the fucking.

But if there was one thing John did not need it was to set a precedent that any protest he might have over Sherlock's behaviour could be silenced with hand-jobs.

"If the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't know then I'm not going to tell the great Sherlock Holmes," he panted, rocking his hips again.

His comment may have been sarcastic, but it inspired him on to a plan of attack.

"What was it I'm supposed to say?" He moved his mouth to Sherlock's ear and almost breathed the word into it. "'_Norbury'_"

As predicted the flattery inherent in the tone worked on Sherlock perfectly. He hummed with pleasure and his hand returned to its ministrations, curiosity forgotten for the moment.

Sherlock's hand was startlingly hot against his cock, and at the first stroke John knew he couldn't keep going for much longer. At the fifth the slickness and heat overwhelmed him and he climaxed, cum splattering the sheet and a smear of it going across Sherlock's belly.

He sank down on top of Sherlock, his whole body warm, lose, and begging for the release of sleep.

But Sherlock was looking at him pointedly, whether impatient for his own climax or answers John wasn't sure.

Regardless, there was still a plan to see through.

After pushing his protesting body up and sliding down so his head was level with Sherlock's waist he ripped the sheet away, prompting a small grunt of pleasure from Sherlock, and tongued at his hip for a little while.

Then he pulled back.

"You were wrong about Norbury."

Sherlock's head snapped up and he propped himself up on his arms to stare at John. He was still hard, but clearly it was relegated to a minor annoyance.

"I can't have been."

John moved his hand and thumbed at Sherlock's head, bringing Sherlock's mind back to the business at hand. The tension melted away as John's hand began to move up and down firmly. At the very moment Sherlock looked ready to melt back down onto the mattress, John spoke again.

"Munro doesn't want it kept a secret. He wants me to post the case to my blog to make up for lying and being such a hypocrite. If you're very nice to me I might write the version in which you were right after all."

Sherlock's scowl was just visible from his position.

"Well it's only a very small error. I never said I was completely-" He grunted as John twisted his hand, "I got everything else right."

John gave a non-committal '_hmm_', but before Sherlock could demand to know exactly what he meant by that, he lowered his head and took Sherlock in his mouth.

Giving head is never an entirely comfortable experience, but there's a great deal of pleasure to be gained from the reaction of the other person and in this John was vastly rewarded. Sherlock dropped back down onto the bed with a low moan indicating it wasn't going to be long until he climaxed.

But John wasn't going to make it easy for him. He felt decidedly wicked as he pulled away altogether, leaving Sherlock bucking in frustration.

John took pity and decided to talk quickly.

"Far from being hysterical, Mrs. Munro was a pillar of strength. She was _horrified_ her son felt the need to hide his true feelings... and scary gargoyles or no, she embraced Aurek as a second son. When I left Grant Munro was weeping into his mother's shoulder while she tried to embrace them both at the same time."

If Sherlock was frustrated before John had spoken, John thought he might be having a tantrum now.

"There's always something!"

John reached out to gently stroke him, bringing his mind back to the present. He tilted his head to smirk at Sherlock

"So next time you are being overconfident… remind me again what I should whisper in your ear?"

Sherlock scowled.

"_John_."

John grinned. "Nope."

"You can't be-"

John stilled his hand altogether. Sherlock gave a huge sigh of annoyance and, sounding extremely put upon, he finally spoke.

"Fine. _Norbury_."

John fought to stop his grin so that he could reach down and open his mouth, taking Sherlock in for another three slick strokes.

And then he stopped, waiting.

"Hgh… _Norbury_."

A few more sweeps up and down. Sherlock was so close to the edge one more would do it.

"_Norbury!_ _Norbury! NORBURY! NORBURY_!"

* * *

**A/N:** I was very nervous about posting this as it's the first writing I've shared with anyone in some time so any comments or advice would be much appreciated.

The case, for anyone still wondering, was The Adventure of the Yellow Face which is a story that rarely gets adapted because its subject matter is so old-fashioned and potentially offensive (and also because it's one of the shortest stories.) But it's absolutely heart-warming and the case where Holmes famously gets it wrong, so I wanted to play that idea. Also the beginning of that story is so slashy I just couldn't let it go.


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